


When All Is Said and Done

by ShowMeAHero



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Light Angst, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 21:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18677656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “It’s alright,” Sansa replies. Her eyes flicker to Tyrion, past her curtain of damp hair, then back to her handmaiden. “He’s my husband.”Her handmaiden frowns slightly, but she ducks her head in a quick bow before she leaves. The door shuts softly behind her, and Tyrion scoffs.“Not the most trusting lot, you Northerners,” he says.





	When All Is Said and Done

**Author's Note:**

> lemme try a lil somethin' here.
> 
> Title taken from ["God is a woman"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHLHSlExFis) by Ariana Grande.

When the long night has finally, _finally_ ended, Sansa finds herself with no concept of what time of day it is, only that her chambers are shadowy and she reeks of smoke and blood. She summons the only handmaiden she finds standing around with nothing to do, recruited to help her undress and possibly wash them both. She’s stripped to the waist and starting to wet her hair with melted ice-water heated over the hearth when there’s a knock at her door.

“See who it is,” Sansa instructs her handmaiden, and she scurries away to the door to speak through the crack. Sansa hears a familiar voice and nearly smiles.

“Send him in,” Sansa interrupts the hushed argument. She can’t lift her head for the weight of the dripping water, but she pushes it out of the way of her eyes to see Tyrion come in. He looks at her, then away, out the frosted window. She turns her body from his, lets her hair fall back into her face as she continues pulling her fingers through it. Her handmaiden returns to her side, lifting her hot-water jug again, but Tyrion takes a step closer.

“Allow me,” he says, and Sansa’s smile is hidden behind her hair. “If it pleases my lady.”

“It could,” Sansa answers. She turns to her handmaiden. “You can go.”

The handmaiden glances at Tyrion, then back to Sansa. She says, in a low voice, “My lady—”

“It’s alright,” Sansa replies. Her eyes flicker to Tyrion, past her curtain of damp hair, then back to her handmaiden. “He’s my husband.”

Her handmaiden frowns slightly, but she ducks her head in a quick bow before she leaves. The door shuts softly behind her, and Tyrion scoffs.

“Not the most trusting lot, you Northerners,” he says. Sansa keeps smiling behind her hair, combing her fingers through it to work out the worst of the ash and blood.

“We haven’t been given much reason to be,” she reminds him. “Especially not of the Lannisters.”

“Fair point,” Tyrion says. Sansa gets to her knees over the bucket her hair is dripping into, and she hears Tyrion lift the hot-water jug.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Sansa tells him.

“Please,” he replies. “Do you think my hair looks this wonderful without hard work?”

Sansa glances up at him, lifting her hair out of her line of sight, to find him covered in dirt and blood himself. She almost laughs.

“If this is supposed to convince me, it’s not exactly working,” she replies. She feels almost giddy with relief and exhaustion, the thrill of winning the battle. The ache of losing Theon itches in the back of her chest, but she tries to ignore it, just for now. There will be time to mourn later, alone, behind closed doors.

“Would you like a chance to redress?” Tyrion offers, because for all his bombast and arrogance, he is still a good man; more than that, he is a decent man. Sansa lifts one shoulder, still leaning her head over the half-barrel basin resting on the floor.

“If it would make you more comfortable,” she says. “I’ve been working a bit on being less bothered. He—” —Ramsay’s name need never be said again— “—has been dead for some time. Some things should die with him.”

“That’s quite a positive outlook from someone who hasn’t seen much positivity in her life,” Tyrion says, starting a slow trickle of hot water at the base of her neck. He moves up towards the crown of her head, moving slowly, letting the water work its way through her thick red hair. She digs her fingers down to her scalp, pushes the water down to her skin.

“I try,” she replies. He hums to himself, then keeps humming as he works, absent-minded. It takes Sansa a moment to place it, but she remembers it well. “An old Lannister song. I’m not sure it’s ever been sung in the North.”

“You’ve never had cause,” Tyrion says, cutting off his droning hum of _The Rains of Castamere_. “My apologies. Sometimes it just gets stuck in there. Must be my father haunting me.”

“Please,” Sansa says. “He has better people to haunt.”

“That… is probably right,” Tyrion replies. He finishes with the water, then replaces the jug on the ground. “May I?”

“You may,” she says, dropping her hands. She relaxes on her haunches, leaning back onto her calves as he works the water through himself with his own hands. She shuts her eyes and just enjoys the company for a moment.

“Do you really think we would never work?” Tyrion asks. “I dare to think we might.”

“Do you dare?” Sansa replies, eyes still closed. “What about your loyalties?”

“What about them?” Tyrion asks. “I ought to be loyal to my wife.”

“You ought to be many things that you are not,” Sansa says. “You _are_ loyal to the Dragon Queen.”

“I grow concerned about the Dragon Queen,” Tyrion tells her. Sansa glances at him again, and he removes his hands from her hair to brush the sheet behind her ear. “She has been drifting further and further from her goals, but so does everyone else, it seems.”

“Not you,” Sansa says.

“Nor you,” Tyrion says back. “Lady of Winterfell. Some might suggest Queen in the North, since your brother seems so uninterested.”

“You think?” Sansa asks, but she’s smiling. Tyrion pulls her hair back down over the basin and picks up one of the small jars near her knees, sniffing it. He tries another, then another, before he finds one filled with rose water, cloves, and nutmeg. He pours a little in his hands and starts massaging it into her hair. She sighs.

“I do think,” Tyrion replies. “I think a great many things, actually. Most of them are correct.”

“Most of them,” Sansa repeats. “You were wrong about your sister.”

“We were _all_ wrong about my sister,” Tyrion says.

“I’m not,” Sansa says, and doesn’t continue. She remembers a time, years ago, when Cersei told her how powerful she could be without a foolish man to stop her. She’s run out of foolish men. “Regardless, I _am_ happy to see you here, in spite of all of it.”

Tyrion’s quiet for a moment before Sansa feels him kiss her on the temple. He pulls back before she can respond, returning to his rose water work. He keeps going, as silent as Sansa has ever heard him before, almost surprisingly so.

“I believe I’m happy to see you, too,” Tyrion says. “You make me nervous.”

“Do I?”

“Of course you do,” Tyrion says. “You’ve become a hero. We both know what happens to heroes.”

“I’m not sure I’m a hero,” Sansa argues. Tyrion keeps working the rose water through her hair, inch by fiery inch.

“If you’re not, I’m not sure anyone else qualifies,” Tyrion says back. “Who else has gone through what you’ve gone through and come through so perfectly on the other side?”

“I’m far from perfect,” Sansa argues again. Tyrion scoffs.

“Again, if _you’re_ not, nobody is,” he says.

“Then nobody is.”

“You are to me,” he says, and then falls quiet again. Sansa feels them treading on ice, but she’s not sure if it’s thin or thick, how solid their footing is, if they’re going to crash under the water. “I have to say, I do pity you, just the slightest bit.”

“And why’s that?” Sansa asked, only half-paying attention. She was still exhausted, and his hands in her hair were calming her down from her adrenaline-high. Her muscles, so recently tense, were sore; her eyes felt like they’d stay shut for hours if she let them.

“The world hasn’t treated you well,” Tyrion answers. “I shudder to think that you think I’m your best option. There’s far better out there for you, Sansa. I’m sure there will be at least one decent man left to marry you after all this.”

Sansa’s quiet as she considers this. It seems particularly strange to her, after how she spent most of her child-life in Winterfell, but she’s not all that interested in getting married. Men have been either terrible or worthless (or both) to her for years now. She has had it with trusting terrible men.

“There is one decent man left,” Sansa says, “and I’m already married to him. Why change it?”

Tyrion’s silent for a beat before he says, “Interesting.”

“What is?” she asks.

“I remember a girl with loyalties to my nephew,” Tyrion says, and Sansa’s heart beats a little faster, “who wanted perfect blonde children and a king for a husband. I hardly recognize her in you.”

“I hardly am her,” Sansa says.

“You hardly are,” he agrees. “Are you quite sure this is the husband you want?”

“A husband who respects my wishes, supports my rule, and tells me the truth?” Sansa asks. “What more could I want from a husband?”

“Love?” Tyrion suggests. Sansa looks up at him.

“I love you enough,” Sansa says. “In our own ways."

“Passion?” he offers instead.

“Passion fades,” Sansa tells him. “I want respect.”

“You’re smarter than I think anyone gives you credit for,” Tyrion tells her. He picks up one of the bottles he had sniffed earlier and starts working a conditioner of oil and zest through her hair. “You could rule the Seven Kingdoms, you know.”

“Nobody should rule the Seven Kingdoms,” she says, because she believes it wholly. “I would settle for Lady in the North.”

“You will be a queen,” Tyrion says. “You won’t have to settle. You’re the oldest Stark.”

“Jon is the oldest Stark,” Sansa reminds him.

“Jon is a bastard, and, either way, he’s uninterested in rule,” Tyrion says again. “He’d be far happier if you gave him a hut in the woods and let him live by himself for a while. He’s had too much on his shoulders for someone who intended to die on the Wall.”

Sansa’s quiet. She’s only been living one day to the next, then to the next again. She’s the one with the realities of daily life. She’s the one who’s been keeping this whole thing afloat. The idea of an _after,_ of a world without battles and wars, where they’ve defeated Cersei and the world can settle down again, is an idea she hasn’t let herself entertain.

Now, though, she considers it. She knows Jon, and so she knows Tyrion is right; he would never want to rule, would love to be left to his own devices here, at home, in the North. She imagines herself as Queen in the North.

“Would you return to King’s Landing?” Sansa asks. “Or to Casterly Rock?”

“I’m not sure,” Tyrion replies. He’s pulling the oil through her hair one lock at a time. It’s soothing. “You know, my father once told me I had no rights to Casterly Rock. If only he could see me now.”

Sansa nods her head slightly. “I never enjoyed your father.”

 _“Nobody_ enjoyed my father,” Tyrion agrees. “Regardless, I’m not even entirely sure I’ll live through all of this. If my sister has her way, I _definitely_ won’t.”

“And if I have my way, you will,” Sansa says. “There are many more people on your side than hers.”

“We’ll see,” Tyrion replies. Sansa lifts her head, eyes opening, but he keeps working the oil through her hair, so she lowers it again. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” Sansa says. “I’m finding it difficult to imagine a Lannister choosing to live in the North for an extended period of time.”

“As am I,” Tyrion says. “And yet, here I am today.”

“You are here today,” Sansa says. His hands leave her hair, and she hears a soft clatter. He’s picked the second hot-water jug out of the fire and returned to rinse the conditioner out. He goes section by section, slow, methodical. She shuts her eyes again. “I wouldn’t mind if you stayed.”

“Neither would I,” Tyrion says. “I wouldn’t mind a Stark in Casterly Rock, either.”

“Hard to imagine, though.”

“Agreed,” he says. “This is all, of course, assuming there even _is_ an after. A bit presumptuous of us both to assume we’ll live.”

“We’ve lived through everything else,” Sansa reminds him.

“The roaches of the war,” Tyrion jokes, and Sansa huffs a laugh. “It will all burn, in the end, and we’ll just be standing amongst the ashes.”

“Don’t tease me if you can’t deliver,” Sansa says. Tyrion laughs. “I’m serious, though. We could work this out.”

Tyrion’s quiet again, working water through her hair, rinsing out every last bit of oil and nutmeg. She’s quiet with him, listening to the drip of water into the basin, to his soft, tuneless humming as he works.

“You have quite a bit of hair, Lady Sansa,” he comments, after a while. She smiles.

“I resemble my mother,” she says.

“You resemble yourself,” he replies. He lays the hot-water jug back on the ground and lifts a towel, wraps it around her head and squeezes the water out, working from the back of her neck forwards, wringing out as much as he can into the basin. He wraps her hair in the towel and settles it over her shoulder, and she finally lifts her head to look at him.

“You could do with a wash yourself,” she comments. He smiles.

“Pleasure to see you, as well,” he teases. He motions to her bed, and, after a moment of consideration, she pulls the sleeves of her chemise up her arms again and threads the button back through the loop at the back of her neck. She climbs into the bed and waits until he’s unlaced and removed his boots before she offers him a hand up, as well. He seats himself behind her on his knees and sets the bottle of rose water down on the bed beside the comb he brought with him.

“Are you any good with braids?” Sansa asks. “I can’t imagine you practicing.”

“I’m quite good at a great many things,” Tyrion replies, jokingly defensive. “What makes you think I’m not good at this, too?”

“I assumed you were too busy visiting whorehouses and planning the layouts of sewers,” Sansa says. Tyrion laughs, the most genuine laugh she’s heard from him in a long, long time. “Perhaps I’m wrong, and you’ve just been spending your time plotting how best to get yourself onto the Iron Throne.”

Tyrion tsks, dipping the comb in the rose water and starting to pull it gently through her hair. Sansa lets her eyes shut again, water dripping from her hair down her back and into his lap. He starts at the bottom of her hair and works his way up, section by tiny section, careful not to pull too sharply. “If you think I’m interested in the Iron Throne, you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”

“I already don’t know you as well as I thought I did,” Sansa says. “You trusted Cersei.”

Tyrion’s quiet. Sansa wishes she could see his face again. After a bit, he stops combing her hair and rests a hand on her shoulder.

“I thought she’d tell us the truth,” Tyrion says, “after everything. I _am_ sorry, for that.”

Sansa isn’t entirely sure what to say to that. She considers a few options before settling on, “We all trusted people we shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, for my part.”

“Well, then we all made mistakes and we’re all sorry and so on and so forth,” Tyrion says, squeezing her shoulder, and Sansa laughs, face warm and red. “What’s important is we’ve made it this far, and we’re going to keep moving forward, Iron Throne or no Iron Throne.”

“Wonderful,” Sansa replies, and the two of them lapse back into silence as Tyrion continues combing her hair. She lets her head fall backwards a bit, the tips of her hair brushing his legs where he kneels behind her. He keeps moving in the tranquility of the moment. Sansa’s mind drifts; she wonders what Jon is doing, where Arya is. She wonders if Yara will want Theon, or if he should be buried in the Stark crypts. Goosebumps raise on her arms when she remembers the crypts and what she had only just seen there hours ago.

“What are you thinking about?” Tyrion asks. “Whatever it is, stop it.”

“The crypts,” Sansa says. “And Jon, and Arya. Theon—”

“I was right, stop it,” Tyrion repeats. Sansa huffs a wet laugh, then touches her cheeks, unaware she had even started tearing up. There’s a shift in the mattress, but Sansa doesn’t turn. She finds arms around her neck in the next moment, and Tyrion’s cheek pressed to the crown of her head. She rests her hands on his and shuts her eyes, exhaling shakily, tears running down her face without her crying to release them herself. She doesn’t sob; the tears just fall of their own accord.

“You have done everything you can,” Tyrion says. _“Everything._ You are the Lady of Winterfell. You are a Stark. You are the _eldest_ Stark.”

“Jon—”

“—is a Snow,” Tyrion interrupts her.

“Raised by the same parents,” Sansa reminds him.

“You are _Sansa Stark,”_ Tyrion says.

“Am I not Sansa Lannister?” Sansa asks, eyes still closed, wrapping her fingers around Tyrion’s wrists. He kisses her hair.

“You have _never_ been a Lannister, thank the gods,” Tyrion tells her. “You know that just as well as I do. You are not a Lannister, nor a Bolton, nor a little bird. None of that. You are a Stark— and, if anything else, a Tully. You’re certainly your mother’s daughter.”

“I’ve heard that,” Sansa says. “I’m not sure whether it’s good or bad, sometimes.”

“With your mother, it’s good,” Tyrion says. “You are brave like her, intelligent, clever. Not _too_ trusting.”

“Not always.”

“Nobody is always anything,” Tyrion reminds her. They release each other, and Tyrion returns to combing her hair. “They should give you a fun name.”

“What?” Sansa asks, momentarily caught off-guard.

“Like Halfman,” Tyrion replies.

“I’ve heard other names for you,” Sansa replies. “Lion.”

“The Little Lion,” Tyrion replies. “Imp. Dwarf. I’ve heard them all.”

“I prefer Lion.”

“And are you the Wolf?” Tyrion asks.

“Jon is probably the Wolf,” Sansa replies. “I’m not too sure what I am.”

“Mankiller,” Tyrion suggests. “Man _hater.”_

“Only one of those is true,” Sansa argues. “I don’t _hate_ men.”

“Whyever not?” Tyrion asks. “I certainly would, had I been through what you’d been through.”

“Because I know Jon,” Sansa tells him. Tyrion hums his agreement. “And you, of course.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Tyrion says. Sansa laughs again, then swipes her hands under her eyes. She drops her hands into her lap and lets her head fall back again. She takes a long, deep breath in, then exhales, slowly. “Jon Snow might just be the best of us, tragically.”

“What about me?” Sansa asks, smiling.

“What _about_ you, Sansa?” Tyrion says, and Sansa laughs. “You’re a wonderful leader and you’ve gotten quite adept as an authority figure.”

“Those are the same thing,” Sansa tells him. He laughs behind her, starting to comb from her scalp down. She’s quiet for a moment, just letting him work. It’s soothing. Once he finishes combing, he starts braiding her hair back, comfortable plaits being woven into her hair from her hairline backwards. He works in the silence. Sansa hears a wolf howl outside; she thinks it may be Ghost. Tyrion keeps braiding her hair back, and ties the end with a leather strap off his own wrist. When he’s finished, he taps her on the shoulder, and she turns to look at him.

“How does it look?” Tyrion asks, motioning to the looking glass in the corner of her chambers. She doesn’t want to get up, though; she feels warm, and comfortable, and, for the first time in a long time, safe. Instead, she lifts her hands and feels along the braid gingerly with her fingertips. It’s a little sloppy, a little loose, but she smiles at him anyways.

“Good work,” she says. “Maybe you _are_ good at braids.”

“Did I not just say not to patronize me?” Tyrion replies. Sansa smiles at him. She hesitates, then leans in, and he meets her halfway, his hand coming up to cup her jaw as they kiss. It’s light, and soft, and only lasts a moment, but when Sansa pulls back, she can’t help but smile again.

“You look exhausted,” Tyrion says, and she grins, looking away.

“You’re a flatterer,” she says, and he lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles. “Will you stay, or will your Queen wonder where you are?”

“My Queen knows exactly where I am,” Tyrion tells her. She smiles at the wall, then glances back at him. She’s already in just her chemise, but he still has a couple of pieces to remove and drop over the edge of the bed before he can lay down comfortably. He tugs her covers up and over them both. Sansa hesitates a moment, in flickering candlelight, before she drops her head on his chest and lets her eyes close. She does what he told her to do and stops thinking, just for a moment. She’s not entirely sure what will happen tomorrow, or the day after that, or what’s to become of any of them. Right now, though, she can’t worry about that. She just can’t.

He rubs at the back of her neck absently, and she exhales slowly, smiling, letting herself take just the moment, just for now.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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